


Between the Shadows

by Verecunda



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fae & Fairies, M/M, Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 23:09:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20897663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verecunda/pseuds/Verecunda
Summary: There was once a butler who fell in love with a madhouse-keeper, and a king who fell in love with a magician.





	Between the Shadows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ilthit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilthit/gifts).

It would be only just to say that Stephen was obliged to take notice of John Segundus from the beginning. Firstly, his manner, along with Mr Honeyfoot’s, was so much outside Stephen’s expectations of madhouse-keepers, being exceptionally mild and solicitous of their patient’s comfort, that he could not forebear asking whether they really were doctors. 

Second, despite this exceptional mildness of manner, Mr Segundus then shewed great spirit, even steel, in defending her ladyship’s peace when Mr Norrell’s man appeared at their door. This circumstance, coupled with her ladyship’s own assurance that she would be more comfortable at Starecross Hall, greatly relieved Stephen’s mind when the time came for him to return to Harley-street. Her anguish had been increasingly distressing to witness, and he was glad to think that she might find some peace during her waking hours, at least. As for himself… well, he had endured so far.

This philosophical frame of mind was short-lived, however, for he had not quite reached the front door, when Mr Segundus spoke behind him:

“I beg your pardon,” he said, once more circumspect. “I do not wish to give you the wrong impression of me, but…” Here, he sent a little glance over his shoulder, as if cautious of being overheard. “May I ask you something?”

“What is it, sir?” asked Stephen.

He was not at all prepared for what came next. Almost the next thing he knew, Mr Segundus was standing intensely close to him - as close as if they had been partners in a dance. His eyes, wide and palely blue, fixed themselves upon Stephen’s face with a most singular attention, almost as if he were trying to look _through_ him. “What," he asked, "is the magic that surrounds you and her ladyship?”

The question pierced Stephen with a sharp, hot sensation that was almost akin to panic. Sharply, he turned and made for the door, but before he could quite reach it, Mr Segundus called after him: “There is a rose at your mouth, and another at hers.”

Despite himself, Stephen turned, whereupon Mr Segundus advanced upon him again. His gaze was still intent upon Stephen’s face, but this was nothing to what came next. With a slow, almost dream-like gesture, as if he was scarcely sensible of what he did, he raised one hand. His fingers were long and pale, and they uncurled towards Stephen’s mouth as if to touch his lips. At once, Stephen flinched back, a strange frisson sweeping through him - though whether from discomfort or something else entirely, he did not pause to consider.

“I see it as clear as day.” Mr Segundus’ voice was soft, almost as if speaking to himself. “What does that mean?”

Stephen felt intolerably transparent beneath that close, searching gaze, as if Mr Segundus had somehow glimpsed what passed unseen by so many others until now. For the space of a heartbeat, he was seized by a wild impulse to speak, to appeal to Mr Segundus, to tell him everything about the gentleman with the thistle-down hair, Lost-hope, and his own and Lady Pole's captivity.

But no sooner had the impulse risen than he recalled all the times that he and her ladyship had endeavoured to make their situation known, only to find themselves talking fanciful nonsense, and hope was smothered beneath a dull sense of futility. Whatever Mr Segundus might think he saw, there was nothing to be done.

“I do not know what you are talking about, sir,” he replied, straining to maintain his composure. He opened the door and felt the inevitable sinking of his heart as he saw the gentleman already waiting for him on the threshold. He turned back, saw at once that Mr Segundus clearly perceived nothing, and felt the frail ember of hope within him die out entirely. “Good afternoon.”

-

Upon his return to Harley-street, he was involved once more within the grey pall of the gentleman’s influence, which cast its customary veil between himself and his fellow creatures. The gentleman continued to treat him like a pet, lavishing him with gifts and praise of the most extravagant character, all while railing against the English magicians and expressing quite openly his intention to claim Mrs Strange for his own, all of which combined to oppress Stephen’s spirits further. 

Sometimes, like a ray of wintry sunlight breaking through heavy clouds, he found his thoughts glancing back to Starecross Hall, and in particular to John Segundus: to those blue eyes with their singular intensity, that mild temper which belied a fiercely strong will, and to his strange parting words about magic and a rose. At those times, the fugitive thought would come to him that perhaps, just perhaps, his first instinct had been correct, and that Mr Segundus really might understand his situation, that there might really be a hope of breaking the gentleman’s hold over him.

But almost as soon as the thought came, it was followed by the recollection of what the gentleman had shewn him of his birth, the truth about his mother, and his distrust of Englishmen returned in full force, the fragile hope shattering all over again.

Then, by the time that Sir Walter sent him back to Starecross for another prolonged period, he had something worse on his own conscience to prevent him from speaking. Mr Segundus and Mr Honeyfoot might have been understanding of his being in thrall to a fairy-spirit, but he rather doubted that they would be nearly so accommodating of the fact that he had been complicit in the spiriting-away of Mrs Strange by the same. As it was, he found himself subjected to the ludicrous ordeal of breaking to Lady Pole the melancholy news of her friend’s death - when they both saw that same lady every night, dancing in the arms of their host - their constrained conversation carried out under the oddly attentive eyes of Mr Segundus.

After seeing her ladyship, he made his way to the stairs, looking forward to the refuge of the little room that had been set aside for his use, when he found himself once more accosted by Mr Segundus and Mr Honeyfoot. In the modest attitude that he remembered from before, they told him earnestly that they were of the opinion that Lady Pole was not, in fact, mad, and that there might be some way of making sense of her outlandish talk.

Stephen listened, but rather than feeling any sort of enthusiasm, he was struck by a sudden, cold dart of anger and impatience. Did they really think they could hope to match the power possessed by the gentleman? For all their books and learning, had none of these English magicians ever taken a warning about meddling with forces they did not understand? What was it about the English, that they felt compelled to master _every_ force they encountered - in this world or in any other? The indignation was so marked that even he was surprized by the unwonted curtness of his tone as he cut across them - “You do not have my permission” - and started up the stairs.

“And yourself?” Mr Segundus called after him.

He did not reply.

By the time he had taken possession of his room again and unpacked his belongings, his anger had cooled and he was once more tired and blank. For a long time, he sat on the edge of the narrow bed, his eyelids heavy, his whole frame weighed down with weariness. Presently, after what must have been nearly an hour, the shadows of evening began to lengthen across the floor, and he caught the faint, homely aroma of cooking wafting up from downstairs. To his surprize - for his condition had long subdued his appetite as well as most of his other senses - he found his mouth watering, and he made his way downstairs. After paying a quick visit to her ladyship’s room to ensure she had all she needed, he followed the aroma to the main hall, where he found Mr Segundus and Mr Honeyfoot sitting at a table laid for dinner, eating and talking companionably together. As he entered, they looked up at him and smiled, as if no sharp words had passed between them at all.

“Oh, Mr Black!” said Segundus, quickly swallowing a mouthful of pork pie. “Please, do join us.” He gestured to the table, where a third place had already been set.

“Thank you,” said Stephen, and took his place, a little abashed, beside Mr Segundus.

“Pray help yourself, sir,” said Mr Segundus, gesturing to the food that was before them. “There’s plenty to go around.”

“Might I help you to a chop or two?” Mr Honeyfoot asked, proffering him the plate. “They are most excellent. We get them from the butcher in the village.”

“Will you take tea now?” Mr Segundus put in.

They continued in this vein for some time, talking in the cheerfulest way, and for some time Stephen could not find a moment to utter more than the briefest thanks. Presently he had before him a plate liberally stocked with chops, mashed turnips, and bread and butter.

“This is most kind of you, gentlemen,” he said in a low voice. “I am sorry for my earlier conduct.”

“Oh,” cried Mr Segundus, “pray do not trouble yourself, sir. It is quite all right.”

“You are very kind,” said Stephen, “but it was exceedingly ill-mannered on my part. I am - I was - very tired, but that is no excuse, and I beg you will accept my apology.”

“Well,” said Mr Segundus, smiling, “so I shall, if you insist, Mr Black, though really there is no need.”

“Any one can be a little out of sorts after such a long journey,” said Mr Honeyfoot, with easy amiability. “Pray don’t trouble yourself about it any more, sir.”

“Thank you, gentlemen.” Glancing between them, his eye happened to catch that of Mr Segundus, who smiled at him again. It was a singularly arresting smile - open, yet somehow shy - and through the heavy shadow of enchantment, Stephen was greatly surprized to feel, deep in his heart, a sudden soft glow of warmth.

-

By and by, Stephen settled into the rhythm of life at Starecross Hall. The pattern of his days was still governed by the whims of the gentleman, and the sheet of murky glass that so often seemed to separate him from the rest of the world could never be fully removed; but when he had the strength to reflect upon his present situation, he had to acknowledge that if circumstances had only been different, then life at Starecross would be very pleasant indeed. This was owed in great part to the dispositions of Mr Segundus and Mr Honeyfoot, both of whom were so peaceable, and so pleased to think well of their fellow creatures, that together they imparted to their establishment an atmosphere of calm and comfort, which even he was sensible of, for all the depression of his spirits. They were, too, the most amiable of gentlemen, apparently lacking all the native arrogance of so many who shared their race and station, and they treated him with an unreserved kindness and courtesy; quite happy, it seemed, to share his society.

Being gentlemen, however, and gentlemen-scholars besides, it must be owned that they ran their establishment in an earnest but somewhat arbitrary fashion, and their housekeeping methods occasioned Stephen a not inconsiderable degree of anguish. Before long, he found himself taking a good many of the house’s practical affairs in hand, organising and improving them to the admiration of both gentlemen. It was precisely the sort of work in which Stephen had once found enjoyment and satisfaction, and it offered a mild balm to his heart to engross himself in such honest, unremarkable tasks. He waited on Lady Pole along with Mr Segundus and Mr Honeyfoot, who often came in to read with her or talk to her while Stephen stood in attendance, but in the main she preferred to be alone, worn out by yet another night of dancing, and Stephen passed most of his time in the company of the gentleman.

Most days, Stephen and Mr Segundus would sally forth from the hall on various errands, usually to purchase such provisions and other necessaries they required. Such walks brought them over the old packhorse bridge and along winding, deeply-rutted roads that led to the village or the neighbouring farms. In this open country, the sky spread vast and changeful, a living backdrop against which the wild crests of the moors and the knotted shapes of the old, wind-bent trees seemed to Stephen oddly insubstantial, as if they might be blown away by the next breath of wind.

It was on these outings in particular that he found himself getting better acquainted with Mr Segundus, and the more he discovered, the more Stephen found himself growing to like him. He was the most pleasant of individuals, and Stephen did not think he had ever met another man more thoroughly good. His consideration for her ladyship had already won Stephen’s approval a hundred times over, but in their own dealings together he also proved to be a most exceptional person. He was immeasurably gentle and honest, curious and clever. Though a gentleman, he had, as he revealed to Stephen, lived most of his life in straightened circumstances, and perhaps it was this which lent him the faint air of anxiety that hung perpetually about his manner, but above all, which made him delight in even the most simple of pleasures.

This delight shewed itself one day as they were walking back from the village. It was a day in very early spring, cold and clear as glass, the sky alive with the darting shapes of the first returning swallows. As they crossed the bridge, the veil of light clouds parted to admit a sheet of pale-washed sunlight, and lit the opposite bank where, through a bright, brittle crust of lingering snow (for winter clutched on tightly up here in the moors), the first green shoots of early crocuses were showing, standing in ordered little lines, boldly green against the white. Segundus motioned to these.

“You will think me very foolish,” he said, rather shyly, “but I have always thought that these new lines of fresh shoots look a little like magical writing.”

These words gave Stephen a queer start. In truth he sometimes would look at the sky, at the pattern of the clouds as they sailed and scudded high above the moors, and half-fancy that in their curling, ever-changing shapes there was some message that was just beyond his understanding to read.

“You do?” he said.

“Oh, yes,” Segundus replied. “In fact, a great many things do.” Then, seeing that Stephen did not smile, his own expression faltered and he added, something self-conscious, “I dare say that must sound quite childish to you.”

“No,” said Stephen quickly, remembering himself. “No, indeed. On the contrary, it is most - imaginative.”

“Yes,” Segundus agreed, recovering his smile, “my mother and father often said much the same thing. They laughed a good deal, of course, but they were always pleased to indulge my fancies.”

Stephen’s heart clenched as he thought of his own mother, whom he had never known, and had only ever seen in that awful vision conjured for him by the gentleman. Quickly, to fend it off, he cast about for something to say. “Then is that what drew you to the study of magic, sir?” 

“I suppose it must have been,” said Segundus reflectively. “At least, it was one of the things that made me believe that there was something… more, and hope that magic was not altogether gone from England.”

Another recollection now flashed across Stephen’s mind - Segundus’ eyes, intent on his face, as if he had sensed that there was something more about him, too. And, inevitably, that recollection was succeeded by another, long fingers almost brushing against his lips, and something, some strange tension, coiled softly within him.

Something of this must have shewn in his expression for, rather misconstruing it again, Mr Segundus gave a small laugh. “Pardon me, Mr Black. I am sure this must all sound quite ridiculous. You are such a sober, practical gentleman; sometimes I fear it must be a sore trial to you, obliged to share lodgings with two scholars like Mr Honeyfoot and I.”

“No, Mr Segundus. No, you are not a trial, I do assure you. I am most grateful for all you do for her ladyship. I know your friendship is a great comfort to her.” He paused, drew a breath. “As it is to me.”

In response to this, Mr Segundus smiled. It had quite a remarkable effect upon his face, lightening his features, dispelling all trace of reserve and leaving behind only a bright, candid pleasure in its wake. “Truly?”

“Why yes, of course.”

To Stephen’s immense surprize, a flush rose in Segundus’ face, and Stephen felt that same inner glow of warmth as before. For several long moments they stood there, facing each other upon the crest of the old packhorse bridge, strangely intimate in all that wide landscape. The dark stream chuckled beneath their feet, and the clear, cool breeze sighed past, carrying with it the delicate green scent of coming spring and the whispered promise of new beginnings—

“What a terribly insipid fellow this is.” The voice rasped out of the very air by his shoulder, and the light seemed to turn itself inside-out. Stephen had no need to look to know that the gentleman with the thistle-down hair was at his side once more. “My poor Stephen, is this really the society you are obliged to endure in this place?”

“I…” Stephen opened his mouth to speak, but could not. Like one caught in a nightmare, he watched, frozen into helplessness, as the gentleman approached Mr Segundus, his expression twisting with the most severe disapprobation.

“Such a shabby little personage,” was his estimation. “What drab, threadbare clothes! And observe his twice-turned sleeves!” He flicked his fingers at the offending articles. “To think that such a poor fellow as this should think himself fitting company for you, Stephen.” So saying, he made a contemptuous gesture at Segundus’ face, so closely that Stephen feared he meant to rake it with his long nails.

“_Sir_—” The strangled word escaped him before he could stop it. Before him, Mr Segundus, who just a moment ago had seemed so incredibly close, now seemed unreachably far away, on the other side of some wide, misty chasm, but Stephen could still faintly discern the frown that crossed his brow.

“Mr Black?” Even his voice seemed remote and distorted, as if carried upon the wind from another world. “Mr Black, are you well?”

Once more, England was falling away from him, and he was being drawn back into the gentleman’s sphere. He could almost sense the grim trees of Lost-hope closing their branches over his head. Distantly, he knew he was standing as rigidly as any soldier in Lord Wellington’s army, frozen like the sedges by the roadside. He knew, too, of course, that the gentleman never chose to shew himself to any one save he, but for all that he had the unsettling notion that somehow Mr Segundus had sensed something of his presence, for his eyes narrowed a fraction, then left Stephen’s to glance from side to side, as if expecting to see something. 

Gripped by a sudden, unnameable terror, Stephen said, “The wind is growing colder, Mr Segundus. We should get back to the hall at once.”

Quickly, he strode ahead, but not before catching a glimpse of Mr Segundus' face: bewildered, dismayed, and profoundly unconvinced. He fought to pay it no mind, but led the way at a smart pace up the road towards the hall, while the gentleman walked at his side, expounding on his newest plans to confound the two English magicians; and above his head, the dull wintry clouds drew in once more.

-

Here was the stark truth of his situation. No matter how much he might wish otherwise, no matter what overtures of friendship Segundus and Mr Honeyfoot might extend towards him, the gentleman’s hold upon him was too strong. However he might find himself drawn towards the warmth and understanding they offered, always he found himself awaiting the inevitable call back: the shifting of the shadows, the low groans in the air about him, the familiar oppressive presence at his side, rendering him strengthless and hopeless once more. 

And as time passed, there arose other causes for division. They never spoke of it to him, but he was quite conscious that Segundus and Mr Honeyfoot had not abandoned their scheme of trying to translate Lady Pole’s enchanted speech. He knew it from certain constraints in their manner, conversations hurriedly cut off when he entered a room, and the way in which they sat and talked earnestly over their books of an evening. That core of stubbornness of which Stephen had so approved when he had witnessed Segundus dismiss Mr Norrell’s servant had now been turned against him. Had he possessed the strength, or the facility, he should have shouted, railed against them, told them in no uncertain terms what fools they were, how they had no conception at all of the powers they were pitting themselves against.

Worse still was the effect upon her ladyship, for their suggestions had invested her with the hope - the terrible hope - that she might at last find some way to tell the world the truth of her situation and break the enchantment; and she was increasingly exasperated with him for not sharing her enthusiasms.

“He wishes to understand, Stephen,” she said one day, clutching his hand with fierce eagerness. “He and Mr Honeyfoot have been explaining it to me. They say that much of the nonsense we are forced to recite bears a great resemblance to many stories Mr Honeyfoot heard from his mother, and that by comparing them, they might come at the true meaning of what we wish to say.”

Stephen shook his head, wretched. He knew her frustrations only too well, knew that she had been shut up and dismissed by a whole succession of doctors, and sometimes the shocking, traitorous thought even entered his head that Sir Walter did not chuse to question too closely the nature of her affliction…

“And what then?” he asked, for what felt like the thousandth time. “Would you put Mr Segundus and Mr Honeyfoot in danger from _him_? You know the power he has over us, and he holds a liking for us. Only consider what he might do to them if he considered them his enemies!”

“I think you underestimate them, Stephen,” she retorted, flashing him a look full of indignation. “You know as well as I that Mr Segundus has already perceived more than any one around us in London ever cared to. He has abilities of his own. Don’t you trust him? I had thought that you and he had grown quite close.”

This statement sent a strange jolt through him. He had not considered that relations between John Segundus and himself might be considered as such. The thing seemed so manifestly impossible - whatever he might wish for - that for a moment he half-entertained the suspicion that her ladyship was mocking him.

But no, he thought, as he glanced at her face again, here he did her wrong. She was - of course she was - in the most deadly earnest.

“Mr Segundus and I are friends,” he said, this last word feeling strangely heavy on his tongue.

“Then why do you not trust him?” she pressed. “Don’t you wish to be free?”

_Free._ The word brought him up with an unpleasant start, and he felt that a gulf had opened between them. She did not understand, of course she did not. It did not occur to her of the terrible consequences that should certainly result if she should resist and fail. For his own part, Stephen was resigned to surviving this as he had survived everything thus far: to endure his lot, and be thankful that it was no worse. 

Truth be told, the more intolerable his situation became, the more impossible the thought of resistance seemed. The gentleman had already been triumphant over his acquisition of Mrs Strange, and with each new development in the feud between Mr Strange and Mr Norrell, he was full of fresh exultations. And with each exultation, Stephen’s spirits were plunged lower and lower still, until they reached depths of hopelessness that he would once scarcely have believed possible.

“Soon,” the gentleman said at his shoulder, while he sat in his narrow room on Starecross’ upper floor, “soon, my dear Stephen, the magicians will be destroyed, all of England will be yours, and you will be free from this dismal hovel at last.”

Yet for all the gentleman’s promises of his kingdom to come, Stephen found it impossible to hope for, impossible to believe in. He was weary to his very soul, his limbs ached as a man’s more than twice his age, and often when he looked out the window, the world appeared so very grey and bleak that it scarcely seemed worth the trouble of wishing he could rejoin it.

It was in this same state of mind that he found himself one night sitting by the window in the long hall downstairs. The hour was late, long past midnight, and he was so very tired, yet he did not go to bed. It was the one recourse to resistance left to him, though a flimsy one, for he knew very well that the gentleman could might appear to him at any time, waking or sleeping, and draw him back. But even so, he would often sit late, though his eyelids grew heavier and his mind leaden with fatigue. Lady Pole often did the same, he knew, and even now was also sitting alone in her room, doing everything she could to put off sleep, to put off the inevitable return to the dance.

The night silence was almost absolute. The soughing of wind through the branches outside served only to draw attention to the complete stillness within - a stillness which was presently broken by the sound of soft footsteps approaching along the passage.

“Mr Black?” Mr Segundus’ voice came hesitantly out of the darkness.

Stephen turned from the window. Segundus stood some little distance away. In the moonlight that fell softly through the window, his eyes seemed even lighter as they looked at him. With a heavy sigh, for even the effort of turning seemed to take him to the very limit of his strength, he said, “Mr Segundus.”

“I have just looked in on her ladyship,” said Segundus. “She said that she has everything she needs, and will require nothing more tonight.”

“Thank you. I am glad,” said Stephen. Feeling the weight of Segundus’ scrutiny upon him, and knowing himself unequal to it, he added, “Then I think I will retire myself, Mr Segundus. It has been a long day.”

Stiffly, every joint in his body already aching as if he had been dancing for hours, he eased himself from the window-seat, but before he could take his leave, Segundus said, very softly, “Mr Black.”

At the sound of his voice, Stephen could do nothing else but turn back. Segundus was watching him closely, so closely indeed that Stephen was recalled to that day in the hall. Segundus’ scrutiny was no less unsettling now, but there was something more in his face now - something almost sad, which went directly to Stephen’s heart.

“Mr Black,” he said again, “is there nothing I can do to help you?”

“Mr Segundus—” Stephen felt his shoulders slump.

“Please.” Segundus cut across him, and took a step closer to him. “I know you do not approve of our enterprise, but her ladyship believes our theory has some merit. If you would only allow us one chance—”

Stephen closed his eyes. Perhaps if he did not have to look at those earnest, beseeching eyes, he would be able to resist them.

“I have already told you what you think. You do not know what you are meddling with.”

“No,” Segundus conceded, “no, that is quite true. But we have made an extensive study, Mr Honeyfoot and I, and I do not believe that our efforts would put either yourself or her ladyship in any danger.”

“It is not the danger to us that I was thinking of,” said Stephen, “but the danger to you. I do not wish any harm to come to you, Mr Segundus.”

He said it with low earnestness - the first unrestrained thing, he thought, that he had said in so very long - and it hung there in the moonlight-silvered night between them, potent and precipitous. He fancied he even saw Segundus’ eyes widen a fraction, before they clouded once more with a frown.

“But I do not understand. What harm do you anticipate?”

He looked at Segundus, at his sincere, sensitive face, and felt that subtle, unnamed thread pull between them once more, as he had that day on the packhorse bridge. The yearning came upon him again, the desperate urge to speak, along with the sure and certain belief that Segundus would understand; that, of all people, he could trust John Segundus.

But even as the thought came to him, he felt the shadow of enchantment fall across him, and felt the words come crowding to the tip of his tongue - nonsense words, all of them - and the will went out of him upon the instant. And he felt, too, a gnawing sensation of dread, so strong that he half-expected to feel the gentleman’s presence at his side at any moment. He recalled his scornful words about Segundus, that strange, half-threatening gesture, and his throat tightened. Bad enough that the gentleman had already taken notice of Segundus, but Stephen already knew what a jealous, covetous disposition he possessed, and how pleased he was to consider himself Stephen’s only friend. He dreaded what the gentleman might do to Segundus if he imagined that Stephen might have taken a friendly interest in him - to say nothing of this deeper affinity that lay between them.

“Please,” he said, and heard the strain in his voice. “Please, Mr Segundus, do not ask me any more questions. I _cannot_… I cannot tell you.”

Though the space that separated them was now only a matter of a step or two, it seemed to yawn empty and vast between them, an impassable chasm. At last Segundus receded, drawing back with a great, unhappy sigh. “Yes. Well. Goodnight, then, Mr Black.”

“Goodnight, Mr Segundus.” As he said so, he felt a desolate sensation of loss open in his chest. He turned away and left Segundus standing alone in the pale moonlight.

Somewhere, deep in the darkness, a bell rang.

And so it went on, on and interminably on, without ever a hope of relief, until the wild night when a man with a cart came to the door with a most unusual cargo: a man with blue skin, who claimed to have a message for him.

-

It was a long time before new King of Lost-hope - the man who had once been Stephen Black - thought of returning to England. For a long time he was greatly taken up with the business of setting his new kingdoms in order, for his predecessor had left them in a condition of the most shocking disrepair. But, in time, all wrongs were set right, all prisoners set free, and the fairy mansions were restored to their former glory. The celebrations of cruelty and bloodshed were abolished, and the dances that were now held in the halls of the King’s palaces were occasions of laughter and joy. The forests shed their gloomy shadows and bloomed fresh and green, while the grim remnants of ancient battles grew over with curling ferns and silver flowers. 

Even when he at last found time away from his many duties, the King felt very little desire to return. He had done with England, done with captivity, and he was pleased to put it behind him.

But for all that, as time went on, his thoughts would wander by secret paths back to the people he had once known. He had good reason to believe that Lady Pole was safely free from her own enchantment, and he had no doubt that she would take charge of her own destiny. She would be quite well, and Mrs Strange too.

Most of all, however, his thoughts returned to John Segundus. As he found himself with more leisure to reflect upon his time at Starecross, he would wonder how Mr Segundus fared back in England, and what he might now be doing. He had departed Starecross very suddenly, amid a scene of great confusion, and he regretted that he had not been able to take proper leave of its inhabitants. At last the wondering grew too strong, and he resolved to visit John Segundus again.

Opening a window between England and Faerie, he looked through. The night in England was well advanced, and Mr Segundus, who had always kept late hours, was seated at the writing-desk in his own little room, surrounded by a quantity of books and writing busily. By the light of his single candle the King could see that Segundus’ brow was furrowed in a little frown of concentration that he had seen many times, his whole countenance rapt and happily lost in whatever it was he was writing. He noticed, too, how the candlelight shone upon Segundus’ face, and caused his eyelashes to cast soft shadows upon it, so that the King smiled to see him. 

Calling upon his power, which still held wonder for him even now, he drew apart the veil of shadows between him and that little room, and stepped through. As he did so, a gust of wind from Faerie caused the little candle-flame to gutter and shine faintly blue, before returning to its original condition. Noticing this, Segundus paused in his work and glanced at it with a little frown. Then, apparently perceiving that the quality of the light in the room had grown decidedly more blue-and-silver than could quite be accounted for, he turned in his seat, and when his eyes fell upon the King standing not three paces away, his eyes went extraordinarily round. He saw, too, that his little room was suddenly filled with vines that curled and twined across the walls and about the rafters, and that the floorboards were suddenly blooming with little star-like flowers that shone in the darkness. Slowly, he rubbed his eyes, and said in a dazed voice, “I think I must be dreaming.”

The King smiled. “No dream, Mr Segundus.”

For some time after that, Segundus seemed unable to breathe, let alone speak. Then, after a considerable pause, he ventured: “Mr Black?”

So much had happened since he had thrown off the name of his captivity that for the span of a heartbeat, the King did not quite realise that this address was intended for him. When he did, he frowned a little, displeased by the memories it brought with it, then his expression cleared, and he replied, “That name no longer belongs to me, Mr Segundus. I have cast it off. I am now simply the King of Hope-restored: Lost-hope, as was.”

“Oh!” He would scarcely have thought it possible, but Segundus’ eyes went even wider. “Good heavens, yes! Oh, I do beg your pardon, sir. Lady Pole said something about that after you left us. She said that the fairy had claimed you were a king to be, that it was part of a prophecy.”

“So it was. He told me I was meant to be the King of England, but in truth it was his kingdom I was meant to succeed.”

“Ah.” Segundus’ eyes lifted to where the silver crown gleamed upon the King’s brow, and he said, “I hope you will not think it impertinent of me, then, if I congratulate you on your good fortune.”

Though much had changed, John Segundus remained as modest as ever, and the King could not help but smile. “Not at all. Thank you, Mr Segundus.”

“I am glad to see you well,” Segundus went on. “I was quite anxious on your account after you and the fairy-gentleman vanished so suddenly. Her ladyship felt certain that you would be safe, for she said the fairy had a particular affection for you, but even so, it was hard not to know for sure.” His smile shed its uncertainty, becoming unreservedly warm and sincere. “I am so very happy to see you again, Mr Bl- that is to say, Your Majesty.”

Warmth bloomed in the King’s bosom. “And I am happy to see you quite recovered after your confrontation with my predecessor.”

“Oh, quite recovered! The enchantment wore off almost at once, though for a few days afterwards poor Mr Honeyfoot kept touching his hands to his ears, worried they were about to fly away again. But we have had no more ill effects than that.” He paused, and his expression sobered. With great gravity, he added, “It was a very disagreeable thing, to be rendered voiceless.”

“Yes,” agreed the King with equal gravity. “It was.”

Segundus nodded. “I see you no longer have that rose at your mouth. I had read something about it before, but did not recall until later, when Lady Pole told me of the circumstances of your enchantment, but I had that a rose very often stands for silence. I knew it signified something, but I could not think what, until it was too late. I am sorry for it, sir.”

“There is nothing to be sorry for. The old king is dead, and his enchantments are all undone. I am only glad that there were no more ill consequences - here at Starecross, at least. He worked great evil in his kingdoms, and has left them in such a very ruinous condition that I have much to do to restore them.”

“Well,” said Mr Segundus then, with great amusement, “you are certainly the one to do it.” He gestured to the chaos of papers about him with a rather rueful look. “I am afraid that without your improving influence, our housekeeping habits have slipped back into their old sad condition.”

“So I see,” the King replied, amused in turn. “For all their differences, fairies and English magicians are both the most hopelessly disorganised creatures I have ever encountered.”

“Indeed!” cried Segundus. “You cannot know what chaos it has been since magic returned to England. Now that Lady Pole has left us, Mr Honeyfoot and I have returned to our original scheme of establishing Starecross as a school for magicians. To that end, I have been in correspondence with various members of the York Society - it has been reinstated now, you know - but I am afraid that trying to get any two members to agree upon even the smallest detail is a sad challenge.” His look became rather wry. “Another quality that fairies and English magicians share, I’m sure.”

The King laughed. “Quite.”

“And,” Segundus went on, “I am now employed in writing a biography of Mr Strange.” He paused. “I do not suppose you have chanced to encounter him and Mr Norrell since left us? They have both disappeared from England entirely.”

“No. No, I have not seen them.” Nor was he entirely sorry for it. True, it was due to their efforts that he had gained his promised powers and been able to take his place as king, but their feuding had caused a good deal of unhappiness that might easily have been avoided. “I have seen nothing of England, nor of English magicians - at least until now. To own the truth, I do not regret it, but I did wish to see you again, Mr Segundus. I am sorry that I was unable to take my leave of you properly; it was at a most confused and chaotic time.”

“Yes, it was,” said Segundus, very gravely, “and I am afraid we used you rather roughly. I am most truly sorry for it, sir.”

“It is all behind us now,” said the King. “It has been a new beginning for us all, and I would very much like it if we were able to begin with a clean slate. Would that be agreeable to you, sir?”

Segundus’ face warmed with pleasure. “That would be most agreeable indeed.”

“And I wish to thank you and Mr Honeyfoot for all the kindness you shewed me while I stayed here. I know I was often quite sharp—”

“Oh,” cried Segundus, “my dear sir, pray do not trouble yourself about that! Lady Pole explained the exact nature of your circumstances.”

“Nevertheless,” he said, “I did not get the opportunity of saying it then, but I was truly glad for the friendship you offered. I hope that now all causes for restraint are passed, we might continue as friends, as equals.”

“Equals,” said Segundus, looking as if he was about to laugh. “You, a King of Faerie, and I a mere - well, I am not even a mere schoolmaster yet.”

“As free men, then.”

“Yes,” said Segundus. “Yes, that will do very well. And yes, of course we are still friends. Oh, my dear sir, I am so very happy to see you again.”

In that moment a warm, shining understanding flowed between them, that tentative thread that had so often . This time, when John Segundus raised those long, wondering fingers to his mouth, he did not flinch away, but smiled, relishing their warmth as they traced the shape of his lips, before laying his own against them.

When at last they drew apart, the King considered how best to proceed. Certainly, none of his fairy subjects would have the least scruple about simply carrying any object of their affections away with them to Faerie, but that was most certainly not to his taste. The gentleman with the thistle-down hair had expressed his own affection for him by lavishing him with gifts richer than any thing he had ever thought to own, but somehow he thought Segundus would be made as uncomfortable by such a gesture as he himself had been. As for human courtship, all his past connexions had been discreet affairs, mostly between himself and other persons in service, but it had been so long since then, owing to his long enchantment, that he found himself now quite at a loss.

At last, he settled upon the one thing he could offer that he thought might be agreeable.

“I do not intend to have much more to do with England,” he said, chusing his words with utmost care, “but I should be very pleased if you would consent to visit me sometimes in Hope-restored, Mr Segundus. Not permanently, of course, and certainly never without your permission, but perhaps sometimes, on nights such as this, you might care to join me. Our revels are now things to delight in, not at all as they were in my predecessor’s time. Mr Honeyfoot would be most welcome as well, but I ask you most particularly. I remember how you spoke of how you thought of magic before, that there must be something more beyond the limits of your own world. It would be my great pleasure to shew you what lies beyond.”

“I!” breathed Segundus. “My dear sir, can you really mean it?”

“Of course,” said the King. “There is much work still to be done, of course, before the kingdom is truly restored, but I think you would be interested to see it, for all that.”

“I should be delighted,” said Segundus at once, and indeed, his face was alight with mingled wonder and pleasure. But it was more than mere excitement at the prospect of visiting Faerie: his eyes never left the King’s; that bright smile was all for him. “When might I visit?”

“Now, if you wish. You have my solemn promise,” he added, “that you may return here whenever you please, and you shall feel none the worse for your visit when morning comes.”

He put out his hand, and John Segundus took it, those long curious fingers twining with his own, and together they stepped through the doorway that shimmered between the shadows.


End file.
